


The Crooked Age

by aryastark_valarmorghulis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Comedy, Coming of Age, Falling In Love, Growing Up, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Sirius Black, Post-Hogwarts, Remus Lupin Never Went to Hogwarts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-01 14:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16286198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryastark_valarmorghulis/pseuds/aryastark_valarmorghulis
Summary: Remus Lupin never went to Hogwarts/No Voldemort AU.Remus was never allowed to go to Hogwarts and met Sirius later in life."But who said the most logical, conformist solution was always the right answer? Mainstream, boring, by-the-book people. Remus seemed to be a bit of an eccentric. It was refreshing."





	The Crooked Age

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [xinasvoice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xinasvoice/pseuds/xinasvoice) and [muse_in_absentia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/muse_in_absentia/pseuds/muse_in_absentia) for their precious help.
> 
> This story was written for the Sirius Black Fest, and it is based on this lovely prompt: "Sirius' path crosses with that of an elusive boy who he has never met before... even though he should have been at Hogwarts with him. Or what if Remus was never allowed to go to Hogwarts and met Sirius later in life?"

Everything went black. There was pressure against his ears, his chest went so tight he couldn’t breathe, the skin from his ears to his toes stretched taut, until there was a searing slash of pain at his left knee, and then he impacted cold, hard, wet ground. He took a deep breath of fresh night air, and with both his hands he grasped strands of- he blinked, once, twice. He had leaves on his hands, and... juice? His head was pounding so hard he was dizzy, and he must have landed badly on his left knee. He hadn’t Apparated into his house, but into the garden. In the dark, he blinked and squinted. Red berries – tomatoes – came into focus, some dangling on tangled vines, others scattered on the grass, detached from their stems. This wasn't his garden.

Bloody fucking hell.

Sirius groaned and tried to hoist himself up, but a jolt of pain from his knee made him so dizzy his vision became spotty, or maybe it was the alcohol that made him feel like sinking in dark waters. A light went on, and the involuntary reflex of straightening up his back made his eyes water- with his drunken genius stunt he might have broken his knee, so running was not an option. Sirius gripped his wand, trying to think: Obliviate the Muggle was not wise in his inebriated state, but acting wisely has never been his forte, and this probably wasn’t the night that was going to change. On the other hand, calling in the Ministry to get his shameful mess cleaned up by Regulus of all people, would be a supreme humiliation he couldn't fathom enduring.

A man in a dressing-gown appeared in the porch and caught him limping in his garden. For a moment they stared at each other, speechless. Sirius' wand hand was shaking.

“Don’t _hex_ me!”

Sirius gawked at him. He was drunk, yes, but not that drunk to hallucinate: the man just asked not to hex him.

“You’re a wizard? I'll go away, don't call my brother,” he mumbled, so relieved, not quite knowing what nonsense he was spewing.

“I think you Splinched yourself,” his wizard neighbour informed him, pointing to his knee.

Sirius looked down to his knee for the first time, horrified: a good chunk of his trousers was missing and, judging from the blood and the throbbing pain, a slice of flesh too. Between the rhythmic stabs of pain, he managed to feel a pang of embarrassment. He had never Splinched before, not even during the first Apparition lessons, and certainly not in some random guy's garden.

“Bugger. I'm so drunk,” he slurred, like it was an acceptable explanation. “I’ll just-” he jerked his thumb in the general direction of nowhere but here.

“I believe your house is that way,” the guy pointed to his left. He seemed rather collected for someone who has been woken up in the middle of the night by a bloodied stranger Apparating onto his property. “This is number 77, the last of Saxon Close.”

“Do we-” started Sirius, until a suspicion dawned on him like cold water trickling down his spine. Or maybe it was his own sweat. “Oh, Merlin, we slept together, didn't we?”

That, of all things, startled the guy. “No! _What_? No, no, we didn't. I walk past your house when I go to town, and er- sometimes I've seen you around. That's all. You must be very drunk.”

Sirius tried to nod like this conversation was making a grain of sense, but his head was pounding too much. His temples pulsed. His eyeballs _hurt_. He bent down and dry heaved, leaving a trickle of spit on a smashed tomato. This was it, he was either going to get hexed by his neighbour or die of embarrassment among ruined vegetables.

“Look, you shouldn't even walk like this, let alone do any magic... You- just wait here, and I'll give you some dittany and stuff, all right? Don't Disapparate, I'll be right back.” And then the man rushed inside the house, closing the door behind him.

Sirius blinked. He was too inebriated to think – not that he was ever good at rational thinking – but he was pretty sure basic social etiquette didn't say 'help Splinched drunkards that pop up in your garden'. Maybe his weird, unknown neighbour wanted to curse him for ruining his plants or kidnap him and ask for a ransom, his slow brain supplied. His parents wouldn't pay a single Knut. But before he could move – _if_ he could even move - the guy had reappeared, balancing a tray in his hands, wand nowhere in sight. “Can you manage to come to sit on the steps?”

Sirius began to limp slowly ahead, squinting to observe the small bottles, leaves and jars on the tray, still gripping his wand.

“I’m not going to poison you, I swear,” the man said. He was barefoot. “Look, I'll leave this here, and I'll go check inside if I have some dried Goldenrod. You help yourself. At least the dittany to stop the bleeding, all right?” He placed the tray on the first step of the porch and disappeared inside the house again.

Sirius, dumbfounded, dragged himself slowly, one step, a hiss, a yell, then two steps ahead and dropped hastily on the first step of the wooden porch. Behind the fog of pain and alcohol, the realisation this whole evening was turning out rather undignified dawned on him while he was rummaging in a stranger's private stash of potions. Or poisons. The first item on the tray appeared to be only dittany, as promised: a few brown sprigs of hairy leaves tied together with twine, still quite fresh. Next to it, a little vial of the same brown colour that, uncorked, dispersed the lemon-like scent of dittany's essence, and a marmalade jar, filled with a red, dense potion, smelling of eucalyptus oil and pepper, a basic headache remedy. A little empty copper cup and a glass of what seemed to be simple pumpkin juice completed the apparently innocuous assortment.

The mysterious neighbour seemed to have disappeared in his house. Maybe he had gone to call the Ministry. Sirius grabbed the dittany leaves, quite impossible to counterfeit, crushed them in his sweaty palm, and then slapped them on his bloodied knee. Immediate relief seeped through his leg as he rubbed the leaves, and he found it easier to breathe. The leaves had stopped the bleeding, but a superficial layer of skin had been stripped off. He took the vial in unsteady hands and poured a few drops of dittany's essence on his red, flayed skin. He hissed, but it lasted only a moment, green smoke spiralling upwards, and when the wisps cleared the wound was closed, looking days older already, new pink skin stretched over, and no longer hurt.

The spasms in his guts didn't seem to be dimming, though, so he had to take deep breaths of night air to avoid retching, and the pounding in his head never stopped. Clear thinking was proving to be a difficult task. He opened the red jar and took one, two gulps. He still felt like a giant hand was wringing out his stomach, but his mind cleared, like a a fog had lifted from his eyes and he could see again. He sat up, steadier at least, wand in hand, and for the first time since he Apparated, he was able to look around and make some sense of where he was. He seemed to be where his neighbour said, roughly five hundred yards from his own cottage, at the end of Saxon Close and just before the very edge of the woods, in a little patch of garden almost swallowed by the thick darkness of looming trees. Sober, he would have never thought a Muggle could live in that tiny, rickety log cabin, with its pointed wooden plank roof twisted on the right, the chimney so askew that could be held up only by magic and ivy vines crawling up the porch's balusters.

He waited a few seconds, unsure about what to do. The polite manners his family tried to force on him didn't cover being helped by weird neighbours after Splinching in the garden of their shed, but he was pretty sure he owed the guy at least thank you.

“Er... neighbour?” he called, feeling quite stupid.

The guy leapt out of the door a few seconds later. “Feeling better? I'm out of hangover potion, but I have some dried Goldenrod. It should do the job if taken with the headache remedy...”

Sirius watched him: lean, plain looking, messy hair, pointed nose. He was technically still hungover, so he pretended he couldn't be held responsible for the words that escaped his mouth. He often pretended it when he was sober, too. “Are you sure we haven't slept together? Because you're awfully kind for someone who just witnessed a drunk stranger Apparating into his garden.”

The man laughed a little and shook his head. His curls looked grey under the flickering porch light. “Well, if we slept together and you didn't even recognise me, I wouldn't be so nice to you, would I?”

“Still weird,” said Sirius. He still felt like he was standing on unfavourable terrain, like he couldn't gather his wits enough to be on equal ground in of the most bizarre conversations he had ever found himself in, and being friends with James and Peter led to a lot of odd talks. Some fundamental detail about this whole situation was slipping by him, like a fly buzzing in the background, lurking out of the corner of his eye, hidden yet bothering him.

“I'm Sirius,” he added, realising that should have been the conversation's starter, not an afterthought.

“I'm Remus. Don't you want this?” he asked, offering him a jar with a few dry, yellow leaves. Sirius took the jar and sniffed them. It did look and smell like Goldenrod, so he put the leaves in his mouth and started to chew. Bitter and tough. After he swallowed, he fought the urge to Disapparate at once and move as far away as possible, now that he was sober and fully aware of what an idiot he was being.

“Oh, Merlin. I'm so sorry,” he groaned, pretty sure his cloak still had vomit stains from earlier, and even if it was too dark to see, he smelled of it. And he had even suggested to Remus that they might have slept together. “Mortified. I always manage to Apparate to my own bathroom, no matter how drunk I am.”

Remus laughed softly. “I'm sure it happens to everyone.” He was wrapped in a woolly brown dressing-gown, patched and frayed at the hem, and still barefoot. His cheerful eyes were framed by crow's feet.

“Yes, I bet you find a lot of Splinched drunks in your garden, don't you?”

“You were not even the first tonight,” joked Remus, who had, apparently, an unflappable sense of humour. Sirius, despite his wounded pride, started to smile, even if a little self-consciously. “That's why I store all those potions and grow all the healing herbs, so I can send you home all safe and sound and ashamed.”

Sirius laughed, the awkwardness beginning to trickle away. At least one of his neighbours possessed a sense of humour: all the others in their street kept complaining to him about explosions and broom crashes.

“I still can't believe you helped me... Didn't I scare you?”

“At first, yes,” admitted Remus, sheepishly. Dragging his bare feet on the first step of the porch, he should have towered over Sirius, but his shoulders were a little hunched, his warm brown eyes focused on him. “But you got a lot less intimidating after you started to throw up on my tomatoes,” he added, light and playful.

Sirius winced, but decided he liked the guy. Healing a drunk neighbour and then proceed to trade jokes like old friends seemed like the best decision, even if not the most conventional one. Someone else – everyone else – would've yelled, or thrown a hex and then called the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Like Peter would have, and like James would have _now_. But who said the most logical, conformist solution was always the right answer? Mainstream, boring, by-the-book people. Remus seemed to be a bit of an eccentric. It was refreshing.

“Still, thank you, Remus. Anyone else of our dull neighbours would've cursed me and then proceed to call the Ministry or the Muggle police.”

“Sometimes you just have to depend on the kindness of strangers.”

“I guess...” said Sirius, unsure of what to reply to that.

Remus scratched the back of his head. “It's a line from a book. Never mind me.”

Definitely eccentric, Sirius reckoned, and maybe it was the dim yellow light, but Remus' cheeks seemed pink-tinged, the corners of his mouth upturned in a half self-conscious smile, and after Sirius's line about sleeping together he had looked flustered but not disgusted, so maybe... Remus couldn't be much older than him, perhaps a couple of years. And then it hit him.

“Hey, I don't remember you at all from Hogwarts! What House were you in?”

A wooden plank creaked under Remus' feet. “I, er, never went to Hogwarts,” he replied, quietly. He crossed his arms and looked down at the frayed hems of his sleeves. “I'm a Squib.”

 _Bugger all._ If there was a sensible thing to say to that, Sirius was the last person who would've known it. In the Black family, Squibs rated even lower than he did now that he had been disinherited. His stunned silence must have lasted too long, because Remus' face turned into a resigned, weary frown.

“Well, now you seem a lot better, so. Night,” said Remus, the corners of his lips downturned in a sad, backwards smile.

“No, wait, I'm not like that! I don't mind that you're a Squib, you just took me by surprise.” He had no idea what he was saying. “It's that I've known only one Squib, the Hogwarts' caretaker, and I swear he's horrible towards us wizards...” he trailed off, realising it might be quite insensitive to talk about Hogwarts with a Squib.

“All right,” sighed Remus. It still sounded like a dismissal.

“Er. Well, thank you again, I'll- I'll give you back some dittany one of these days?” he tried, wondering how he managed to ruin so quickly what had unexpectedly turned into the most decent conversation of this otherwise disastrous night.

“I have plenty,” shrugged Remus. “Thanks.”

“Goodnight, then,” said Sirius, not moving yet.

“Night.” For the third time, Remus slipped into the house. As if to signal that he wasn't coming back outside this time, the porch light immediately went off.

Sirius, left in complete darkness, turned on the spot and Apparated into his bedroom.

Only later, under the warm covers of his own bed, after a thorough recollection of all the events of that weird night, just before falling asleep, he remembered that he hadn’t even thought  to fix Remus' garden.

***

Sirius caved and got out of bed only when he couldn't pretend he was luxuriously sleeping in any more: the too bright light was seeping through his closed eyes and it was too warm to lay there, still clothed and sweaty, in last night's robes.

So he got up and went to brood in the bathtub, eyeing the bottle of elfin wine he kept on the carved stone shelf. It was in reach, near the asphodelus scented shampoo and the red bar of sea salt soap Peter got him for his birthday, a not-so-subtle suggestion to smell more like soap rather than alcohol. He let the water almost reach the edges, absent-mindedly tracing the floral patterns that decorated the upper walls, splashing water on the white marble floor every time he moved. If he closed his eyes, he could believe it was the usual August morning in Grimmauld Place, wasting away the hours lying in one of the large, severe stone tubs. Except his mother wouldn't have let him drink wine in the tub, there wasn't a Regulus constantly nagging about going outside or playing chess, and the ticking of the clock didn't mean that Hogwarts was slowly getting nearer and nearer. He opened his eyes, shaking away the water: he was _not_ going to long for summers in Grimmauld Place. Only a little for that feeling of fading summer, the dormant anticipation of Hogwarts waking him up of his lethargy.  Since he was eleven, he had always associated lethargy with summer. He should feel grateful to no longer be trapped in his parent's house, to live in uncle Alphard's cottage and off his fortune, to be a grown-up man free to drink in the bathtub whenever he had a craving. And  he did, he really did feel grateful. He shuddered at the thought of Peter, still living with his mother, and James, sharing a flat with Evans: at least he was blissfully alone, nothing stopping him from walking around in his underwear, eating curry and pizza and day drinking.

Except that he was also terribly, tragically bored, and he couldn't even talk about it with anyone, because first of all, everyone had _jobs_ now _._ Horrible things like lunch with co-workers and reading memos and work emergencies seemed to keep James and Peter so busy during the day. Also, James and Peter's brilliant idea for chasing away the boredom was for Sirius to get a job himself, date a nice wizard or witch with a similar dull, boring life and settle down so they could share their meals and argue about money and everyone could plan triple dates at the Leaky Cauldron.

Sirius reckoned his own method, the drinking, had his flaws: it was better than becoming a white collared, law-abiding, respectable citizen, but it was starting to take its toll. Since his embarrassing misadventure with his Squib neighbour three days earlier, he had cut back on the drinking. Well, the day drinking at least, but at nights he opted to Floo so that, even pissed, he could stumble out of his fireplace without anyone to witness the usual bout of retching and throwing up and head spinning and tumbling on his feet and falling spread eagle and still clothed on the bed. He had thought that after months of that nightly – and often daily – routine he might have developed some tolerance, but it seemed his body persisted on rejecting anything stronger than beer. James and Peter, of course, were the worst company, encouraging him to drink more with their never-ending rants about how he should get his shit together.

“Just get a job, mate, and everything will sort itself out”, Peter had said last night.

James had nodded, adding: “You’ve done the rebel act, and it’s been fun, but it can't go on forever, right? You're wasting your best years.” And after those senile statements, of course he felt morally obliged to get supremely pissed. Really, it was all their fault if he was spending more money on hangover potions than on food and if he made an arse of himself with his neighbour. He soaked in the bath until the water was lukewarm, the bubbles almost gone, and his fingers became all pruney, then he proceeded to dry himself without magic in order to take as much time as possible.

Half an hour later he was finally sat at his oak kitchen table, drinking tea and eating a breakfast of some leftover pudding James and Lily had insisted that he bring home a couple of days before. The huge grandfather clock hung beside the fireplace must have been blatantly lying, because it said it was only half past one in the afternoon. Sirius groaned. He had the whole afternoon ahead of him, and no idea what to do or where to go. Well, he had one thing to do he had been putting off since yesterday, and had no will whatsoever to endure: reading the first article Peter had published in _The Magical Herbs and Fungus Journal,_ after months of slaving away in the newsroom, editing other reporter's pieces. Resigned, Sirius dropped into his favourite armchair, an old, lumpy recliner with a patchwork faded upholstery and the stuffing coming out of the seams, an old piece he bought for next to nothing from a muggle pawn shop. He stretched his legs on the coffee table, and braced himself for “Experimental Farming in the Telwe Magical Greenhouse: Can Astralagus Be Cultivated in Great Britain?” The right answer was, of course, who the hell cares, but Peter had been talking about this damned article for two weeks every time they went out for a pint, leaving Sirius bewildered that in only two years they had gone from flooding the Slytherin dorm with muddy water and seaweed to hearing Peter rant about the issues of writing an article based solely on one single research project.

He read it in five minutes, and it would have only taken three if it wasn't so dull, but at least now he was prepared to join the conversation tonight, when Peter would inevitably want to brag about his big publishing success. How weird was it, thinking that Peter was successful, at least for society's standards, while Sirius was- well. If he had been poor, the right definition would obviously be _failure,_ but since he was a rich inheritor from a pure-blood family, he was only spoiled and lazy. Not that Sirius cared in the slightest about matching society's standards, since they usually coincided with his family's standards.

He puttered around the cottage for a while, thinking about what else he might need for the house. Luckily, Uncle Alphard had no taste for snake decorations, silver, or carved malevolent runes, so he had decided to keep all the furniture, only adding some items scavenged from street markets and thrift shops, just to spite his brother and his classy, Black-ish taste in case he dropped by, which he always did unannounced, and Sirius' revenge was making him sit in a stained plastic garden chair and drink tea in a chipped cup. A rocking chair would look excellent next Regulus' plastic chair, the carved oak seat that matched the kitchen table, and the two Victorian wrought iron chairs, he reckoned. That was exactly the mismatched style he was aiming for.

Relieved he had found a way to spend the afternoon, he got dressed in Muggle fashion – all the wizards in Middylwald did their best to conceal themselves, sometimes with hilarious results –, ready to waste time in the village's shops before heading to James’ for dinner. He had so many hours to waste that sometimes he feared time had been Cursed: malformed and stretching just for him, the trickle of seconds slowed to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, until he seemed to be reliving the same day for months. He couldn't fathom how to explain it to Peter and James any more: he had tried, but they both agreed Sirius was bored because he was without a job or a purpose, and he needed to find both, possibly along with a steady dating partner, and everything will be fine again. But that wasn't the point, and besides, at least now Sirius could relive the same day which began with sleeping late and went on with doing whatever he bloody wanted. That was always better than reliving the same day spent working for the rotten ministry, or the sodding goblins, or some boss who ordered him around.

It wasn't bad at all, actually, living in Middylwald, with its small cobblestone streets and grey limestone cottages (and a single wooden hut, he had recently learned), some Muggles, others twinkling with sparks of magic. He liked hearing the occasional crack that signalled an Apparition, spotting the broom sheds that housed flying broomsticks instead of sweeping brooms, the owls flying in and out of windows at odd hours. Here there were both Muggle and barely concealed wizarding shops right alongside each other, and dark woods standing out against the sky at the end of the road. Most importantly, he liked being far from Grimmauld Place and independent from his family. Although he missed the intimacy of living in close quarters with James and Pete, living alone meant freedom as he had never experienced before.

Freedom was wearing him out a little, though: during that summer he had visited quite a few interesting places, from Land's End – the extreme southern point before the mysterious infinity of the Atlantic – to the primitive ancestral magic of Stonehenge, from the medieval streets of Edinburgh during the summer festival. alive with laughter, parties, flirting and all things young and careless, to Rosslyn Chapel, solemn like only sacred architecture can be. But after a while he had gotten weary of going alone, sad without a friend to share the wonder of travelling with. Everyone else was busy. After a year spent touring in France and Italy, he was pretty tired of constant roving. He understood why his uncle Alphard had chosen Middylwald to settle down in: it was so far from London, so different, so much more quaint that it seemed perfect for family rejects like them. The first time Regulus visited he had remarked, peeved, how entangled Muggles and wizards were, so Sirius knew it was a good place to piss on the Black's legacy even more than he already had.

Once he was out and on his way to purchase a disreputable-looking rocking chair, he smiled and greeted everyone he saw: the old man with a cane walking his little king cavalier, wearing a too-wizardly-looking blue cape, the pretty girl with the shaved head, the group of kids eating ice creams, still on school break. They were about twelve or eleven, ready to go back to Hogwarts, Sirius thought with a pang of envy.

He stopped in front of the Antiques shop window. It didn't have any real antiques or even anything valuable. It was mostly full of discarded junk that only wizards fascinated with Muggle technology would find interesting: wires and plugs, electric razors, telephone receivers, broken televisions and Polaroid cameras. The real Muggle shop, not far from there, on Arlington Road was much better.  He was looking at a stained coffee maker and a set of tarot cards when the Squib – no, Remus – passed by, reflected through the stained glass, quickly turning his head in order to avoid him.

Sirius was sure Remus thought he was a prick because of his unprepared reaction to the whole Squib-revelation, rather than for trespassing and throwing up in his garden. He had also forgotten to give Remus back the potions and the dittany like he had promised, he remembered, guilt immediately creeping up to colour his cheeks.

“Remus, hello!” he called.

Remus, startled, looked up at him.

“Hello,” he replied, voice hoarse. Sirius took a couple of steps towards him, determined to show him he wasn't a bigoted arse like his name could lead some to believe. After all, he lived to defy expectations.

“I was just going to the Apothecary to buy some healing potions, to repay you for the other night,” he lied.

Remus just looked at him for a moment, clearly thinking he was making fun of him. He looked older than Sirius had remembered him, with the grey strands that dusted his brown hair glistening like silver, the lines around his eyes and his pale skin standing out starkly in the daylight.

“Really, I feel like I never properly thanked you after you were so kind to me, so the least I can do is replenish the stack of potions you so kindly used on my stupid, drunken self.” Sirius grinned, looking Remus straight in the eyes. Usually, that worked.

Remus scratched his neck, and the corner of his mouth lifted just a little, as if unsure whether to smile or not. “You really don't have to, it's fine.”

“I want to,” insisted Sirius. He decided that blunt honesty was the way to go. “I feel like I offended you after you told me you're a Squib, and I'm sorry, but I swear I was just surprised. I'm not one of those prejudiced wizards. I didn't know what to say and, er, I had a rough night.”

Remus shuffled his scuffed sneakers on the cobblestones. “Thank you, I- you don't know how much I appreciate it, but...” His cheeks reddened a little. “You don't have to buy me back the potions. I have plenty of herbs in my garden to make more, so there's no need...”

“I only hope your poor garden has recovered after- well, after my unbecoming behaviour.”

Remus laughed in earnest, ears pink. He wasn't particularly handsome, but his brown eyes were warm and expressive, and he had a cordial, pleasant smile. “It's been a little tested, but it has fully recovered, yes.”

Sirius watched him, amused. He wasn't above thinking himself capable of pulling even after the embarrassing trespassing and faux-pas of the other night. Oddly enough, the Squib thing was propelling him even more to at least try. Getting into bed with or even just befriending a Squib would be a massive fuck-you to wizarding Britain’s mouldy, prejudiced customs.

“Then tell me how can I properly thank you,” he said, aiming for flirty but not too openly cheeky. Remus seemed a little shy, and he feared he might feel intimidated by a wizard, especially one that was called Black.

“There's no need to thank me, really, Sirius...” replied Remus, tugging on the frayed cuffs of his jeans jacket. Sirius waited. This was the worst part, waiting and doubting if he had misinterpreted the hints, if he had been too bold too soon... “But if maybe you wan–”

“Yes!” grinned Sirius, delighted. He wasn't wrong! He rarely was when it came to detecting interest towards him.

Remus laughed, pink-cheeked, bashful, looking quite bewildered. Probably not a lot of wizards were interested in hooking up with Squibs. “You don't even know what I was about to say!”

“Well, I assumed you were about to suggest something like grabbing a pint sometime soon? Any chance you're free right now?” Sirius' ego was swelling so quickly he didn't even know if he would fit into Remus' cabin. Peter could brag about his article all he wanted tonight, but for sure he wasn't able to pick up a guy after throwing up in their garden.

“Isn't it a bit too early for beer?” joked Remus, following Sirius in the direction of Saxon Close, towards the fancier, larger two-story cottages, framed by meticulously trimmed hedges.

“We can skip the beer,” suggested Sirius, even if he secretly thought it was all but too early for beer. “This is me, just wait- tell me if someone's coming...” he said, checking that there was nobody in sight on the street or looking out the neighbours' windows and then, as discreetly as possible, he took his wand out of the pocket and tapped lightly on the wooden gate's lock. He always forgot the keys. “Come in, come in.”

Remus went inside, taking in the trimmed lawn, the bushes of pink Souvenir de la Malmaison roses, and the honeysuckle draping the facade, looking a little lost. “You have a very nice place. ”

“Thanks. It was my uncle's. He left it to me,” replied Sirius, leading him up the gravelly garden path and spelling the front door open.

He heard Remus breath in, then say, quietly, “I know. You're Sirius Black.” Sirius stilled and turned back to look at him.

Remus shrugged, all awkward long limbs, and then explained. “I read the article in Witch's Weekly.”

Sirius groaned. That sodding, ridiculous article had put him on a list of the most eligible bachelors. “That,” he growled, “was utter rubbish.”

“Er. Sorry I brought it up, I didn't- well...”

Taking pity of Remus' faltering apologies, Sirius relented. If squashing his tomatoes didn't hurt his chances, bloody Witch's Weekly wasn't gonna ruin Remus'. “Look, it's alright. My friends are still teasing me about it so often I feel like I'll never stop hearing about how appealing my _life of leisure_ is, and my _rebel streak_ and my- what was it? Nonconformist something. At least whoever wrote that garbage had enough sense to put me before my brother.”

Sirius gestured for Remus to enter the house, but Remus stayed rooted on the welcome mat. “I only meant that to say that I read about the protest you organized a couple of years ago, against the discarding of the Bill of Goblin Rights. I knew that one is true because even the Prophet reported it, and I just wanted to tell you that it was a good thing that you tried to do.”

Sirius felt a flush creeping up his neck and hoped it didn't show. That protest was one of the final straws for his parents, who disinherited him only a few weeks later. It felt gratifying, even years later, to know someone appreciated the effort. Remus, as a Squib, must feel quite engaged in the debate about magical minorities and their lack of rights.

“I ruined the mood, didn't I?” sighed Remus, running a hand through his messy hair.

Sirius chortled, trying to dissipate the cloud of awkwardness that had gathered over them. “Nah. Just come on in, and...” He preferred to be straightforward with his partners, persuaded that verbal fencing was only good for books and for James and Lily, especially since it was clear that he and Remus were here for sex. So, as soon as Remus crossed the doorstep, he waved his wand to close the door, leaned in, and kissed the awkwardness away.

***

“Fancy a pint at the Leaky?”

Peter yawned, scratching behind the cat's ears. They were smoking outside, on the steps of James' – and Lily's, since they have been living together since last spring, as much as Sirius liked to forget that detail – little villa, the starry, moonless night covering them like a dark blanket. They were already clad in their autumn robes and chasing away the mid-September chill with Heating Charms. Peter's brown corduroy cloak was new and far more fashionable than the usual stuff he wore: he was, after all, as his boss said, and he liked to repeat to anyone willing to listen, an up-and-coming reporter now.

“I'm kind of tired, mate” Peter replied, Vanishing the extinguished butt of his cigarette.

Sirius rolled his eyes, lit fag hanging from his mouth, and fished the crushed pack out of his pocket, offering him another smoke. “You're a young old man, Pete.”

Peter accepted the cigarette with a shrug, letting Sirius lit it with the tip of his wand. “Still younger than James, since he's already asleep,” he pointed out.

Sirius took a long drag and watched the thick smoke curling and slowly dispersing around them, pensive. They stayed in companionable silence for a while, their breaths and Lily's cat’s sleepy purr the only sounds around them. The villa was in the middle of nowhere, the gently sloping hills around it cloaked in darkness. It seemed lonely and remote to him, but he supposed it could look romantic, in an old-fashioned, rustic, eighteenth-century novel way- at least according to Remus' books.

“Pete, don't you think this place is...?” he gestured at nothing, at the whispering wind and the silent grass.

“Quiet?” suggested Peter.

“I was about to say 'more suited to an old retired couple', but yes, quiet is fine, too.”

Peter hummed, softly stroking the cat, now snoring in his lap. He just moved in a rented flat in London, not far from Diagon Alley. “I don't think I would live in a place like this alone, but with the right person I guess it could be nice... to enjoy the quiet together.” Sirius knew Peter was anxious to settle in just like James had, for some reason unbeknown to him, but he was struggling to find the right girl. He had never been very lucky with dating, and being dumped was always a blow to his confidence.

“Sorry about Kala,” Sirius offered, even if, truth be told, he never liked her much at Hogwarts: she always reprimanded them and docked points when she became a Prefect.

“We weren't right for each other.” It was the standardised post-breakup sentence that everyone said when they didn't really want to talk about their feelings, and it worked more than fine with Sirius. They never really had deep conversations without James, and he missed those quiet afternoons spent lazily by the Black Lake, where they _really_ talked: these days all they wanted to talk about were _mature_ topics like jobs, Quidditch teams, politics, what this one or that one was doing, who was dating who. No more talks about sex and death and families and friendship, no more testing the boundaries of their magic and fucking authority, whether it was a swotty Prefect or some racist new Ministry bill.

“Hey, listen, I wanted to ask you: do you remember Lydia Blishwick from school?” asked Peter, diverting him from this nostalgic train of thought.

Sirius sighed, weary. Not again. “Of course I remember her. I only hope this isn't going where I think it's going.”

“Well, if you remember her, you'll remember her brother as well, he was in fifth-”

“Stop it, mate, all right?” snapped Sirius, tone harsher than he wanted. “I can choose my own dates, thanks.”

Peter crushed the butt of his fag with his heel, then Vanished it. “Like mysterious Squib guy, yes, I know.”

There was an undercurrent of irony in the way he said 'Squib' that Sirius didn't like, not one bit. “Remus,” he reminded him, feeling defensive. Remus faced enough shunning and prejudice every day, and he wasn't going to let Peter get away with talking about him like he was inferior.

Peter looked at him and held up his palms in a calming gesture. “Alright, alright. I didn't realize you guys were, er, exclusive.”

“We're not!” Sirius spluttered. Of course, _of course_ , Peter would think they were serious if he refused a date suggested by him, and with no less than a Pureblood guy. “ _Merlin_. We're friends. Doesn't mean you can be an arse because he's a Squib.”

Peter shook his head. “I wasn't? Well, I just thought- think about it, Sirius, Lydia is my liaison with Telwe, and I'm at the Greenhouse pretty often these days, and she's older and, er, you do remember her, right? She's gorgeous...” he trailed off.

She's also rich and Pureblood, Sirius' mind supplied.

“And I never thought someone like her would give me the time of day, but we talk a lot, and if maybe you could be persuaded to meet her brother, maybe the four of us could go grab a pint. Don't say no without at least considering it, all right? ”

“Fine.” Sirius blew a puff of smoke directly on Peter's face, laughing when he squinted. “I'm going to Remus', now that I think about it he's been sick these days, and maybe he needs some _taking care of_.” He winked, then turned on the spot and Peter's grimace faded to darkness as he Disapparated.

He blinked and Remus' garden cabin came into view. He had Apparated there a few times in those past weeks and, as always, he spared a glance at the tomato vines he stomped on so badly the first time. They looked fine now, lit up by the tip of his wand. All of Remus' garden looked on the verge of ripeness, pea pods as green as spring, leafy cabbages as big as Quaffles, bulbous, dirt-covered red potatoes on the right side, magical herbs on the left. Sirius didn't even know Squibs could harvest magical plants, but apparently, they could brew potions as well. This explained Remus' endless stock of potions, which came in handy since he said he was frequently sick, just like he has been this week. Sirius looked guiltily at the cabin's only window. It was dark, its wooden shutters closed. It was late and Remus was ill, so Apparating here on a last minute whim – to piss off Peter a little, more than to check on Remus, who was probably asleep – was thoughtless. Hoping he hadn’t woken him up with the cracking sound of his Apparition, Sirius started to walk back home, leaves blown from the woods nearby crunching too loudly under his soles. Merlin, why did he never think before- “Sirius?”

He turned and groaned: Remus' face peeked out from behind the door. Of course he bloody woke him up. Again. “Are you all right? You didn't Splinch again, did you?” his voice was nothing more than a rasp, and Sirius was feeling like a right arse.

“No, no, I'm fine. I'm an idiot who didn't realize how late it was before Apparating here to, er, see if you were alright or needed anything. Sorry I woke you up.”

“Oh. You didn't! I was just making some tea.” It was painfully obvious that he was lying so Sirius wouldn't feel like the uninvited intruder he was, but Remus was nice like that. “Just a second, my room is a mess!” He vanished inside just as Sirius was climbing the porch steps, feeling guilty to barge in but also a bit happy to see Remus after a few days. Since they first hooked up in late August, they saw each other a lot, two or three times a week.

After some rustling noises, Remus reappeared and opened the door for him. “Come in, the kettle is on.”

The only light in the room came from the stone hearth, where flames were crackling happily under the whistling kettle. Remus hurried to take it off from the iron hook it was hanging on one handed while grabbing a couple of ceramic cups from the mantelpiece. “Can you bring me the tea jar, please?”

Happy to have something to do, Sirius went to the pantry shelves, so cluttered with jars of marmalade, vials of potions, twigs of dried herbs, can of tinned soup and baskets of fresh leaves that it took him a few seconds to locate the yellow tin where Remus stored the tea bags. He placed it on the tiny, round, splintered table. The cabin’s only room was so small that every object seemed within reach, or in the way, since a bunch of braided onions hanging from the ceiling beams brushed his face. Remus laughed hoarsely as he poured water in the mugs. Sirius went to sit on the straw chair, soaking his tea bag as he watched Remus. He really looked sick and tired. There were dark bags under his eyes, his skin was pale and his curls messy and unwashed. He was wearing his usual fleecy dressing-gown, full of patches and holes. “How are you?”

Remus blew on the steaming mug he cradled between his hands. His nails were red and broken, as if he bit on them hard enough to draw blood. “Much better.”

“You look rather ill.” Remus grew a lot of basic healing herbs and could concoct quite a few potions and remedies, but it was obvious he was very poor. The most powerful healing draughts were expensive and required ingredients one couldn't grow in a garden.

“Yes, well, and you look handsome, so what else is new?” shrugged Remus.

Sirius didn't know how to approach the topic and offer his help, so he remained silent and offered a pleased smile at the compliment.

“Did you go out with your friends?” asked Remus. Sirius nodded, hot tea scalding his tongue. “Something wrong? Did you argue again?”

“No, we didn't.” Not out loud, at least, it was more of a subtext those days.

“So you just missed me?” Remus joked, but he betrayed himself with a note of hopefulness that Sirius didn't miss.

“Yes,” he replied, and even if it wasn't totally true, it wasn't _not_ true.

Remus' cheeks went pink and his tired face lit up in a delighted smile. His lower teeth were slightly crooked, but it suited him- lopsided like the roof of his house, askew like his messy hair.

The white lie was more than worth it, Sirius decided. “But now I think I should leave you in peace to sleep. You don't have work tomorrow, I hope?”

Remus looked into his mug, swirling the tea. “I've been sacked, so no. I might go job hunting tomorrow afternoon, though.”

“Ah, er. I'm sorry.” He didn't even know where Remus had been working: when he asked, the reply was only 'oh, a little here and there', and Sirius didn't press, fully convinced that jobs weren't something so revealing or essential in someone's life. Squibs probably didn't land many qualified, interesting jobs, anyway.

“It's alright, I'm used to it by now. I'll find another,” Remus replied, but despite his mild words he sounded tired and weary, the premature lines on his pale face rendering him suddenly old. Sirius came to the startling realisation that he didn't even know his age. “How old are you?”

Remus blinked, surprised by the question. “Twenty.”

“Me too.” Weird, how they were the same age but led such different lives and yet, they enjoyed each other's company.

“I know, I read it on Witch’s Weekly,” teased Remus, but Sirius was pensive, and only gave him a half-hearted eye roll. “Sirius? You're brooding. Not that you don't brood quite nicely, in a Gothic novel charming way, but we can talk if you like. I don't think I'm up for...” he gestured towards the mattress on the floor. The sheets were rumpled and unmade. “But we can talk if you need to vent about something.”

“Nah, I don't want to keep you up with nonsense when you're sick and need resting.” Not to mention, it would be quite insensitive, even for him, to complain about his friends begging him to get a job with someone who just lost his and hadn’t inherited a vault full of Galleons. “I'll clean up, you just go to bed, I feel plenty awful already.”

Remus got up slowly, his joints cracking, but before he could grab the mugs, Sirius wordlessly cast a  _Tergeo_ on them and then Levitated them to the stone sink basin.

“Thanks.” Sirius appreciated that Remus wasn't resentful towards wizards, and didn't mind magic one bit. He suspected Remus didn't have a resentful bone in his body. “I slept all day, though, so I think I might read a little. You can stay and keep me company if you like?” Again the shy, hopeful tone, and Sirius _did_ crave company, so even if it sounded weirdly domestic, reading together, it also sounded quite sweet. And nobody had to know.

“Got some pretentious Muggle novel for me?” Sirius smiled.

Remus, sitting on the bed already, propped himself up on the cushions, and gestured at the piles of books cluttered literally everywhere: on the floor on both sides of the mattress like makeshift nightstands, on the table, on the mantelpiece between copper pots and pans, inside the two pewter cauldrons laid beside the sink. Sirius picked a collection of poems, a dog-eared, battered paperback, and sat on the only armchair, even uglier than the one he bought for Regulus, but soft and comfortable, placed in front of the fireplace. Remus was already engrossed in his book, his tired face softened by the dim glow of the flames.

He owned the strangest collection of books: magic textbooks – mainly for potions and growing plants, Remus explained, shyly – obscure pamphlets about Goblins rebellions, Werewolves and house Elves rights, Muggle poems, novels, and even political essays. The one Sirius randomly chose was a selection of Renaissance poetry, its spine cracked so that it fell open in the middle, where the page was dog-eared.

“ _Ladies and you youthful lovers,_

_Long live Bacchus: long live Love!_

_Everyone sing, dance and play!_

_Hearts, be all on fire with sweetness!_

_No faintness now or hint of sadness!_

_Whatever is to be must be:_

_Who’d be happy, let him be so:_

_Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.”_

He was barely half awake when he heard Remus softly calling his name in the dark, fire almost extinguished. “'s cold, c'me here...”

Sirius, drowsy and clumsy with sleep, took off his boots and robes, crawled on the mattress and under the covers, sheets warm, Remus' feet brushing his ankles, and fell asleep.

***

Remus, still in bed, was letting Lothar, Regulus' snowy owl, eat the pickles Sirius summoned from the palm of his hand. He looked still faintly flushed, hair mussed, long limbs loose under the duvet.

“So. Do you think I'm a- wait, what was it?” Sirius skimmed through Regulus' latest letter and then threw it on the floor. “An egotistical prick? Or an ungrateful arse?”

The owl nibbled Remus' fingers gently and then flew out of the open window, used to not having replies.

“Well, it's the third night in a week that you’ve invited me to your house and treated me to rare steak that you know I can't afford, so I'm pretty sure the egotistical part is a blatant lie.”

Sirius hid his face with the towel he was drying his hair with. Even if there was nothing wrong with spoiling Remus a little – he hadn’t managed to get a job yet, and his diet consisted only of the vegetables he grew in his garden – he thought he was being subtler and felt a little embarrassed, like he was being caught at doing something out of his depth. He also had bought him little presents, but that wasn’t weird at all. He spent only a few Sickles, so it was nothing more than a trifle. He sat on the plush, velvet red chair next to the chamber desk, propping his feet up on the damask ottoman. Remus flopped back on the cushions. He looked spent, but in a good, sated way, no longer sickly and pale.

“And what about the ungrateful arse part?”

Remus smiled at him, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You're fishing for compliments.”

Sirius traced the elaborate wavy patterns at the edges of the little cherry desk with his fingers.

“If you had a chance of working for the Ministry, would you? In a big Department, too. Everyone would, wouldn't they? Maybe I am an ungrateful arse.” It would have been insensitive to bring up the topic if they hadn't talked about the wizarding world several times already.

That topic predictably piqued Remus' attention, since he was always interested in wizarding politics, and much more informed than Sirius. It must be a way of feeling tied to the magical community.

“Well, I don't harbour much sympathy for the Ministry.” Obviously. The Ministry rated Squibs even lower than house Elves, ignoring them and hiding their shameful existence like dirt under a carpet. Remus scratched behind his neck, his brown eyes turning wistful. “But the pay must be quite good, and maybe I could have the chance to do some good, I dunno, improve something, being on the inside.”

Sirius huffed, but moved to on the bed, tendrils of damp hair trickling droplets on the sheets, and Remus immediately shuffled near so they were pressed shoulder to shoulder, fluffy bathrobe against the black faded t-shirt Remus wore. It was nice, being affectionate. Sometimes, with other partners, post-sex had been ruined by tiptoeing into who was going to shower first, awkward breakfasts the morning after and tiring overthinking about what to say, how to behave. With Remus, Sirius had slipped briskly into a lovely intimacy.

“What position have you been offered?” asked Remus.

“For starters, I haven't been offered anything, it's not like the Minister of Magic's begging me to work for them.”

Remus hummed, nuzzling his nose behind Sirius' ear. Merlin, he was so sweet.

“Regulus is insisting that I'd have a secure spot in his stupid Accidental Magic Reversal Squad team, you know, out of sheer nepotism. He's convinced it's the fastest way to climb the Ministry stairs. His plan is moving to the Improper Use of Magic Office and then taking the Department of Magical Law Enforcement by storm.” Sirius felt a lot less enraged now that he was being cuddled.

“Well, it's where the big decisions are made,” reasoned Remus, face perched on his shoulder. “I suppose it's a smart move if one wants to have a career in politics.”

“It's what my bloody family has been doing for centuries, swaying the Ministry with the coercion of the Black's donations, always choking on all that disgusting Pure-blood nonsense,” spat Sirius, with all the venom he could muster when Remus was hugging him.

“Maybe if you were in charge the laws could turn out half-decent? But I can't see you behind a desk, trying to reason and compromise with blood suprematists... you'd set them on fire after a day. I think you might like it better where the action is.”

Remus, who had known him for only a month, but was perceptive and actually bothered to listen to him, got the point better than his own brother. Sirius stroked the white scar on Remus’ left forearm lightly, raised skin rough against the pad of his thumb. He had another on the bridge of his nose, and he had a habit of always keeping a shirt on – even during sex – which led Sirius to think they weren't the only ones. He didn't mind at all. The crooked, bashful smiles, the messy hair, the knobbly fingers, the long limbs and the kind brown eyes were the gentle brushes that painted Remus' attractiveness. Sirius had slept with more conventionally beautiful partners, but none of them had made him want to confess all the most secret truths buried inside of him, trusting they would be kept tenderly.

“My friend James just started his second year of Auror training. Nobody has been accepted this year, but he thinks I might be. I have enough N.E.W.T.S to apply, at least. And if I have patience for three sodding years, I'd be where the action is,” he said, keeping his voice as light and disinterested as possible.

Remus pushed him lightly against the headboard and sat on his lap. He had been shy in bed the first few times, but he had become much more playful and self-assured since. “But – because the but is the part that matters, right? - but you'd be one of them, then.” His hands played with the tied bow of Sirius bathrobe, eyes focused on Sirius' face. “You'd be a man of the establishment you despise so much, and accepting the job would imply not only accepting their principles, but also acting as the embodiment of the Ministry's laws. Right?”

Remus was also a very sharp knife, and that coloured him with a very charming light, in Sirius' opinion.

“Oh, and you'll also be a proper grown-up, with a respectable job and everything... what a _horrible_ prospect,” Remus joked, eyes glistening with mirth.

“Well?” asked Sirius, after a few moments of silence. With Remus sitting so snugly in his lap, he was getting impatient to end this conversation. “Literally everybody has been giving me their unwanted opinion on the matter, so you might as well give me yours.”

Remus smiled as he leaned in, cupping Sirius' cheeks in his hands. “I think you'd look very handsome in the Auror uniform,” he said, simply. “And you're more than capable of deciding by yourself, without being influenced by anyone's expectations,” he leaned in and caressed Sirius cheeks with his calloused, rough hands. “Or blinded by your own rebellious stubbornness.”

Sirius kissed his soft mouth, tasting the sweetness of his tongue, feeling his spine stretch beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, heat crackling between them like flames spreading, like sparks of magic.

***

Sirius laid back on his black velvet sofa, head and feet propped up on its burgundy cushions, a very appreciated gift from Mrs. Potter, eyes on the white stucco ceiling. The grandfather clock steadily ticked away the seconds, the constantly moving pendulum almost hypnotic in its ceaseless back and forth. But it never ran quickly enough for Sirius. He glanced at it: only midday yet. Remus was at work- he hadn’t exactly explained what job he had landed, and Sirius didn't press. Outside it was cold and pouring, droplets smearing the glass windows, sky so gloomy that the living room seemed washed-out, painted in grey and shadows.

Sirius huffed, hand reaching to the coffee table and blindly grabbing the thick folder laid open on it, the same brochure James had very subtly sent him for the third time. _Auror Training: Requirements and Coursework_ was written in bright blue ink in the upper edge of the parchment. He was not going to admit to James he was actually considering applying, since he was barely beginning to admit it to himself. And considering it didn't mean he was actually going to go through with it. A three-year programme sounded hellish, and he was actually pretty sure he already knew most of the Defence and Duelling spells and hexes. Stealth and Tracking could be fun but on the other hand, Magical Jurisprudence sounded so dull he couldn't fathom James enduring it, let alone himself.

But after the training… he would have the chance to go on missions, hunt down Dark wizards and witches, retrieve dangerous, cursed artefacts, meet Dark creatures. It was, admittedly, everything he had ever wanted. The downside was that he couldn't do it by himself. He would be doing it for the Ministry, and that was no fun, no fun at all. Remus would advise him to make a list and write down all the pros and cons, but at the end, it was only one, simple conundrum: to do what he loved, he had to endure the Ministry. Even if later in life he wanted to work freelance as a Dark wizard hunter, he couldn't at the moment. He had no qualifications, and his last name being what it was, he was more likely to be believed to _be_ a Dark wizard, not a hunter of them.

“You can just try, see if you like it, and if you don't, you'll just make one of your dramatic exits, slam some doors and drop out. No harm in trying, right?” was what James said. As much as he had gone soft with Evans, he knew Sirius best and wasn't going to give him bad advice. James was also a smart bastard who knew Sirius was getting more and more restless and bored every day. There were only so many shops he could visit, and Uncle Alphard's Gringott vault wasn't an endless pit of gold like his family's, so sooner or later he _had_ to consider a job if he wanted to maintain his lifestyle of sporadic trips, nights out, takeaway, and expensive gifts for  his friends. The downsides of being disinherited. Not that he wanted to have anything to do with the Black’s doubtfully earned gold: Regulus could happily keep it all for himself.

Suddenly, a green flash lightened the dull greyness of the room, flames sparkling from the fireplace. A lean, dark silhouette stepped out and Sirius, startled at first, groaned, covering his face with the pillow as his brother, like he had been Summoned, came into his living room.

“You're alive, then. If you call this being alive.”

Sirius threw the cushion at him. He missed. “Why on earth would I be dead?”

Before he could Vanish the chairs, Regulus sat on the elegant – but a tad uncomfortable – iron chair, ignoring his usual ugly plastic seat. It would be quite petty, but Sirius wasn't above Vanishing the chair while his brother was sitting on it: Regulus brought out his most petulant, childish side.

“You never answered my last letter,” Regulus replied, looking quite formal in his simple but finely cut black wool robes, a pin symbolizing his Ministry employee rank. “I thought you may have hanged yourself out of sheer boredom.”

Sirius didn't get up from the sofa. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“It would be disappointing if you had actually been dead.”

Sirius didn't even know anymore if his brother was tragically lacking in the sense of humour department or was only pretending he didn't have any to piss him off.

“Well, sorry. I've been busy,” replied Sirius, grumpily. He had been in bed with Remus when he got the letter and then promptly forgot to answer.

“Oh, I can see that,” Regulus' voice was dripping so much sarcasm Sirius was surprised that acid wasn't leaking from his mouth and melting the marble tiles. “Busy sleeping, I reckon. Or moodily walking through the woods because you believe it's… _rad_.” He spat the last word as if it was too common for his refined manners.

Merlin, Regulus made him want to live in a Muggle dump, taking shite jobs and eating chips for dinner, just in spite. On the other hand, he would hate to be influenced by him. He had given this a lot of thought and he came to the conclusion that choosing to do something only for the sake of being contrary wasn't the most valid of methods.

“Exactly,” he said, bored of having the same fight over and over again. It always ended in a stalemate, with Sirius screaming with his wand spitting sparks, and Regulus mortally offended, only to come back a few days later to have the exact same argument.

They were as far away as the stars bearing their names, with light years of cold, dark, endless space between them. Sirius didn't even like his brother very much but, at the buried core of his heart, he still loved him, and he suspected Regulus kept coming back, moreover against their parents, led by residual affection. Love was a difficult spell to undo.

“Want some tea?” he offered.

“Yes, thank you. This is my lunch break, you know.” And _I'm spending it here arguing with you_ , went unsaid. He had been such a sweet, soft child, always clutching Sirius' arm when they snuck out of Grimmauld Place to wander off in Diagon Alley, watching the shops and buying Chocolate Frogs, sometimes losing themselves and then running home like mad because being late for dinner meant being punished.

Sirius tapped the kettle with the tip of his wand, and then, as a very thoughtful peace offer – he mentally complimented himself for being so mature – he took out of the cupboard two Chinese porcelain cups, decorated with blue lotus flowers that moved slowly, like they were drifting in still waters.

“Want a sandwich, too?” he asked, pouring water with one hand and Summoning the tea leaves with the other.

“If you actually keep edible food in your house, colour me impressed,” said Regulus, but with far less bite in his voice than before.

Sirius rolled his eyes, even if the edible food came actually from Remus' garden and from the leftovers of their dinner. “Git. Do you want it or not?”

“Yes, a sandwich would be great, thank you. You should take a House Elf for those things, though.”

Sirius didn't even dignify him with an explanation about his aversion to House Elves. “No, thanks, I don't share your weird attraction to them.”

He chopped the tomatoes in fine slices with a quick spell, took the ham out of the refrigerator and spelled the pantry open for bread. He didn't even have a pantry before seeing one at Remus'. He spread two bread slices with mustard, then covered them with the ham and the tomatoes and put them on a plate. When he turned he saw Regulus sitting on the sofa, browsing his Auror brochure.

He had always been irritatingly silent and sneaky.

To his horror, his brother's usually sphinx-like face looked almost satisfied. “I suppose they must be desperate for new recruits since Moody deemed all the candidates unworthy this year. Potter must be vouching for you, am I right?”

Sirius went to the coffee table and put the plate down with so much force he was surprised it didn't break. “Shut up and eat.”

Regulus took a bite, but sadly it didn't discourage him from talking. “Potter is an insufferable show-off, of course, but so are you, it must be the reason you two get on so well. An Auror career would be perfect for you: hex first, ask questions later.”

It did sound perfect, but damn him if he was ever going to admit it to the prying git.

“I never said I'm even interested! And why do you care so much? What's in it for you? Can't you just... let it go?” he sighed, gloomily, but Regulus, chewing and crunching, ignored him. Sirius Summoned a glass full of water, glad that at least he wasn't talking any more. “Isn't your break almost over? Wouldn't want the Ministry to miss your indispensable presence for more than half an hour.”

Regulus stood, sweeping crumbs from his pristine robes. “You'll like Mad Eye Moody: he's crazy. He'll hate you at first, but you'll love him.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, following him to the fireplace.

“Arse. You know, I liked you so much better when you were a sniffy little child afraid of Grandfather.”

Regulus uncapped the jar of Floo powder on the mantelpiece and grabbed a handful of it, glancing at Sirius with those unfathomable eyes of him. “I remember that time we almost ran into him at Knocturn, and you made me hide inside a fountain.”

Sirius blinked. Regulus wasn't prone to reminiscence, and even less to sentimentality, but before Sirius could speak he was suddenly aflame with green, and gone.

***

Sirius was walking down Saxon Close, a spring in his steps, when Lothar glided over his head, dropped a rolled piece of parchment to his feet and then, white wings spread, soared away in the sunset orange-blue light. He picked up the message, wondering what the hell got into Regulus that day. He stopped. Only two sentences were written on it.

_Moody will expect you next Monday at 9._

_You'll be officially summoned soon._

Bloody fucking hell. He turned his feet on the spot, and then froze. Remus was waiting for him, and it wasn't really worth it to delay or cancel their evening to go and hex that sodding meddling arse that was his brother. It wasn't worth it, he tried to reason in his head, like a magic formula to spell himself calm. He was going to spend a perfectly enjoyable evening with Remus, maybe burn off some steam with sex, and after, only after, he would think of revenge. He might go tomorrow morning at the Ministry to have a row with his brother in front of his superiors, or he could prank Regulus in the middle of the night after Remus had fallen asleep. He could also ignore the bloody git and simply not go to the meeting. Or go to the meeting, because making decisions only to spite Regulus would, in fact, only prove he was as childish and petty as his brother believed him to be. Bugger all.

Without even realizing, he had reached the cabin, almost cloaked by darkness already, shadowed by the thick, menacing shapes of the trees. Remus was waiting for him on the porch steps, smoking a cigarette.

“Hello, Sirius.” Remus crushed the butt under his soles and sat up to greet him. Sirius hugged him, clutching his lean frame tightly in his arms, inhaling the salty-sweet smell of his neck as Remus laughed throatily and squirmed a little in the embrace.

“Let's go inside at least,” he grinned and tried to drag him inside the open door, not the easiest task since Sirius was still gripping handfuls of his fuzzy sweater. They laughed, stumbling on the threshold, heads knocking in the hanging ropes of onions and garlic, feet hitting the books scattered on the floor, shedding their clothes, breathlessly gasping for air, breathing each other.

Later, Sirius was lighting both their cigarettes with his wand, limbs lax and loose, legs tangled under the quilt. Pressed against his shoulder, Remus blew smoke from his nose, eyes closed, sweat beading on his forehead, dark spots under the armpits and on the front of his shirt. He looked young now, cheeks red, hair messy, the crackling light from the hearth casting soft shadows on his face. “Want some music?” Sirius asked.

Remus nodded, eyes still closed, an utterly blissful smile still lingering on his face. “It's your wireless, after all.”

“It was a gift, it's yours now,” Sirius reminded him, and not for the first time, as he aimed at the wireless with his wand and turned it on, Happy Death Man's notes filling the tiny room at once. Remus didn't have electricity, which boggled Sirius to no end, but he explained, embarrassed and flushed, that he couldn't afford to pay rent because he didn't have a steady job, so he had to rely on the cabin, that belonged to his grandmother, who was a witch. He said it wasn't actually too hard to live without Muggle electricity. He knew how to light fires for cooking and heating, and when his wizard father came to visit, he re-freshened the complicated spellwork that made water spew out of the sinks and the bathtub, and re-made the Cooling charms for the refrigerator. To Sirius, it seemed like an exhausting and weird way to live, but he was fairly aware that – as much as his whole family was horrible – he was used to a privileged, rich lifestyle, so he decided to abstain from commenting. Remus didn't want to hear about how bizarre his house was, and Sirius found his eccentric – mysterious even – way of living quite interesting. He was still tight-lipped about his new job, and Sirius respected his choice of always keeping a shirt on, but curiosity was growing stronger day by day.

He knew that a lot of charlatans promised Squibs cures to 'restore' lost magic. Maybe Remus had resorted to one and, after some wonky Spell, had been left with more scars than the ones on his arms and face and still no magic. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed out of character: the Remus he was starting to know was far too clever to fall for that kind of delusions. Maybe when he was a child his parents had tried to fix him, but every wizard knew there was no cure for Squibs and no magic to restore it, since it wasn't there in the first place. Still, he knew far less about Remus than Remus knew – or guessed – about him, and he wanted to even that unbalance. They had a lot of fun together. Remus was sweet and never judged him, and he had even managed to let him momentarily forget about his meddling brother. Not to mention it was a nice change, seeing someone outside of the usual social circle of ex Hogwarts alumni he picked his partners from.

“Hey, do you want to go grab a beer at the pub?” Sirius asked, out of the blue. They never went out, except for some walks in the woods. They usually stayed at home, eating together, talking, or even simply laying in bed reading and listening to the wireless. Cosy as it was, he felt like something was missing, and if it sounded like he was asking for a date, well, what the hell. They’ve been seeing each other for a month now, and he had an inkling that Remus didn't lead a very active social life, so they have also been exclusive.

Remus finally opened his eyes, staring at the fag between his fingers for a second before answering. “I don't have much money to spend.”

“I'll pay.” Sirius offered, quickly, and this time Remus glanced at him, a flickering strained smile gracing his features.

“'course you will.”

Remus was so collected it wasn't easy to read him sometimes, but Sirius thought of catching an edge in his tone. Odd, since he always accepted his gifts – the wireless, the dinners – with a smile.

“Something wrong?” Sirius asked.

Remus reached for the chipped ceramic cup placed on top of the pile of books laying next to the mattress, and he slowly stubbed his cigarette. He was taking his time to think of an answer, Sirius realized, so there was something. Something he wanted to know. But then he simply laid his head on Sirius' shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong, we can go now if you want,” he replied, voice mild. “I know this must be boring for you.”

Bewildered, Sirius shrugged him off his shoulder and stared at him: there was some miscommunication going on that he needed to rectify. “Remus, I'm asking you on a date, I'm not bored of you! Are you bored of me?”

He suspected he was failing at keeping his tone casual, but wouldn't worry about it at the moment. He was more worried about the fluttering in his chest, like a hopeful bird was trapped in his rib cage, struggling to get free.

For an excruciating moment, Remus only shook his head and sighed. “No, no, Sirius, I'm not, I'm really not...come here.”

They kissed for a while, but something was slightly awry, like Remus was trying to misdirect him with his lips rather than his words, so Sirius grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. “Then what's wrong? Is it the money thing?”

Remus shifted his gaze, messing up his already tousled hair with his fingers. “Well, being poor isn't fun, is it.”

Well, that was the most bitter Sirius had heard him, but even if he knew nothing about poverty, he knew it wasn't fun, or quaint, or eccentric, or every other adjective he had first associated with Remus' house. He felt pretty ashamed about that now.

Remus caressed his cheek with the pads of his fingers, touch delicate despite the rough skin. “Look, that doesn't matter, it's- of course I'll go for a pint with you, we can go out now if you want.”

Sirius searched his warm, brown eyes and found them honest, even if underneath he thought he glimpsed a strained, almost pleading request to let it go, whatever it was that Remus was harbouring in himself and not sharing. He didn't mind that Remus was reserved – a hint of mystery only added to the charm – but it was spurring Sirius on to get to know him better, to strip him of all the lingering reticence little by little.

“Alright.”

A few hours and a lot of pints later, Remus was tucked in his bed, asleep – they had been quite tipsy and Sirius' house was nearer – when Sirius got up, wand lit up. He Summoned quill and parchment, sat at his desk and wrote, hastily, eager to go back to bed.

_I'll be an Auror only to hunt and frame all our dearest family of Dark-Arts shaggers. You included, you meddling little arse._

_Lots of love, and fuck you._

***

It was Sunday afternoon and he still hadn't decided if he was going to go to the Ministry the next day. It was better to decide in the morning, without spoiling that Sunday afternoon with Remus. His restlessness, though, was bleeding out of him in waves, and Remus seemed to smell it like a bloodhound.

Sirius cast a non-verbal _Incendio_ and the heap of twigs Remus had gathered flared up. While he started to pace around the spreading red flames, Remus remained cross-legged on the ground, bundled up in a patched coat. With a blanket thrown over a carpet of crackling dried leaves, he was warming his hands even if it wasn't that cold, his pale face tired and sickly. Again.

“You should see a Healer,” Sirius said. “Or buy some strong Pepper-up.”

Remus only hummed in a vague agreement. He had led them to a little clearing deep into the woods, where ancient, dilapidated stones laid in a circle. In Muggle's legends, Fairies were believed to dance there at night, Remus had said. They had decided to roast some chestnuts in the woods, but now it seemed silly: they could have easily done it in one of their houses since Remus was unwell and shivering, even if he didn't want to admit it. They had been on two dates, one at the Middylwald pub and another at the Leaky, and they had been fun: Remus didn't even throw up after Side-Along Apparition and hadn't seemed uncomfortable at all in Diagon Alley. But today Sirius felt troubled, thinking that a simple decision of going or not going to this interview could influence his life for the next three years, or forever. He shuddered. He longed for a change – Merlin knew his boredom had reached its saturation point – but at the same time change irked him, like he was losing his battle with the ticking time, and at the end, even later and unwillingly, he too was rushing to meet social expectations, falling in line just like everyone else.

“So James invited me to his place tomorrow night, to celebrate my late grand entrance at the Ministry,” he snorted. “That arrogant berk is so sure I'm going tomorrow that he organized a whole dinner party. Peter is coming too, with his new girlfriend. If I decide to go they'll be irritatingly cheery, and if I don't it will be an absolute nightmare, so you'll have to come with me, all right? James is dying to meet you anyway, and you'll like him, he's great when he's not trying to shoehorn m-”

“I can't.” Remus said, so softly he barely heard him, still staring at the flames.

“Why not?” His words echoed in the trees, and Remus flinched. “Got other plans with your friends?” he went on, fully aware he was being petty and cruel: he suspected Remus didn't have many friends.

He hated that Remus was remaining in silence, shoulders hunched. He hated that he had put that suffering expression on his face, but everything was being so damn irritating that day, and he needed to spit out all the pent-up nervousness he had been harbouring all week. He wanted to let it bleed out like venom from a wound, and finally be free of it.

“Just have some guts and say you don't want to come and meet my friends.” Gold sparks fired from the tip of his wand, and Remus finally, finally looked up to him, face drained of what little colour he had, mouth downturned in a miserable line. For a second, Sirius felt ashamed, but then Remus started to talk, voice clear.

“Right. I can't lie to you anymore.” He sat up, joints creaking like an old man's, and Sirius just stared at him. “I'm not a Squib. I'm a Werewolf. Tomorrow is the full moon and I'm so sorry, Sirius, I didn't tell you because I like you so much and-”

“You what.” It had to be the most unfunny joke, but in a single, horrible moment of dawning, all the pieces flew to rearrange themselves, and a clear mosaic revealed itself from inordinate fragments: Remus' sickness last month and now, his inability to keep jobs, all the healing remedies and potions he stored in the house, the shirt he never took off, the scars, his odd interest for magical politics...

“So, what, you've been lying to me the whole time?” said Sirius, anger and bitterness now steaming off of him so fiercely he hoped Remus was choking on them. He did seem to, eyes big and shiny, but his gaze didn't waver.

“I'm so sorry, I- at first I didn't tell you because I didn’t think you would stick around long enough to figure it out, and then… I've been selfish. I kept delaying the inevitable because I couldn't bear you being disgusted by me-”

Sirius laughed. A bitter, joyless laugh, because that was the most ridiculous, self-loathing sentence he ever heard. “Just so we're clear, I'm not disgusted that you're a werewolf, Remus, I'm hurt that you're a liar. You must know that I'm not like that! Hell, if I didn't care you were a Squib, why the fuck would I care that you're a werewolf?”

He kicked a fallen branch out of the way, then kicked it again, the snap of breaking wood loud in the silence, but it wasn't enough, not even nearly enough to convey all his anger. He wanted to take Remus by the shoulders and just shake him until the pain evened out between them.

“But how could I be sure? It's not the same thing!” cried out Remus, tugging on his hair. “I'm a Dark Creature, people are disgusted and scared of me when they find out, and-”

“So, you're not a Squib?” Sirius interrupted him because Remus was saying dreadful things that were also making sense, and he just didn't want to hear things that made sense, he wanted to yell and scream. “Are you actually a wizard?”

“Yes.” Remus sniffled, but his gaze never faltered, not once.

Sirius closed his eyes, speechless for a second. The first thought he had when he saw Remus' house was that only a wizard could live there, and he had been right all along. The little story about his father coming to re-cast maintenance spells sounded, now, like the pathetic lie it was.

“You must have been laughing your arse off every time I was helping you – I thought I was, at least – with magic, you know, when I cleared the table or dried the dishes like some clueless–”

“I never laughed at you!” Remus almost shouted, his voice for the first time louder than Sirius. “I swear, I could never laugh at you, you were so kind, and I was falling for you and I wanted- I wanted to tell you the truth so badly but-” his voice broke for the first time, and Sirius had to fight back the instinct to soften his attitude, to forget his wounded pride for a second. “But I'm a coward,” finished Remus, voice steady again. “I'm sorry. I understand if you don't want to see me anymore.”

Sirius scoffed, and more sparks burst out of his wand. He wanted to tell Remus to go bugger off, but also that he might forgive him. He wanted to know so many things, when was he bitten, where the hell did he go during the full moon, who taught him magic, and was he even planning on telling him…

Remus murmured “Alright,” and then took a wand out of his robe, a real fucking wand, and he was gone, the crack of his Disapparition like a slap in Sirius' face, echoing in the silence of the woods.

***

Sirius complimented himself for taking it, he reasoned, rather well, considering. He didn't follow Remus home to yell some more, he didn't Apparate to Knockturn Alley to pick a fight, he didn't Floo James to vent his anger. He walked all the way home – scaring a lot of squirrels – and then proceeded to drink all the alcohol he had, from lower to higher proof. First, he pulled out two cold beers out the refrigerator and drained them pacing around the house. He just couldn't stay still, all the questions swirling in his head had to be stopped, because the most pressing one made him feel like a right idiot: how could he have not guessed? Was he so self-absorbed he didn't notice any clue or was Remus a first-class liar? But, no, actually he had noticed quite a few times that Remus was hiding something. He would have found out sooner or later. He switched to the white Chardonnay and by the time he was drinking the red, sweet elfin wine he kept on the bathroom shelf, his mind was a mess of limping, half-formed thoughts. Poor Remus, but he's a wizard, a sodding liar, and tomorrow is the full moon, and he said he fell- Sirius retched on the toilet seat, sweat prickling on his back, cold marble tiles digging bitterly on his knees. He had planned on ending with the bottle of Ogden's Old, but he decided he had enough, he didn't have to get even sicker just to say bugger all to exactly no-one. He splashed fresh water on his face and grabbed the little vial of hungover potion that Remus – sweet, lying, Remus – had brewed for him. He drank it, complimenting himself again for the string of mature decisions he was making that evening: he was not going to sabotage himself for tomorrow morning. If he decided to go and then proceed to make an arse of himself, or even if he never showed up, he was going to own it and do it sober.

He went to bed at nine, without eating, bedroom pitch black after drawing the heavy damask curtains so the pale moon couldn't cast her waxy glow on the room. He closed his eyes, refusing to think about Remus, only a few hundred yards away in his little cabin, refusing to think about anything at all.

He woke up at six, stomach churning in protest, so he got up and showered. Then, like a puppet with its strings moved by an invisible wand, he took out the slices of bacon from the refrigerator, put them in a skillet, fired up the burner with his wand and waited until they looked crispy enough. After, he cracked two eggs in the same skillet, watching them hiss and sizzle. And then he ate. He wondered if that was how James and Peter and Regulus and everyone else felt every morning before work, if that steady refrain wasn't a weight to bear, a toll that would eventually consume them, or if you just get accustomed and become one with the system, a smoothly working gear in the fine machinery of society. He was about to find out soon. He couldn't bear to stay at home all day with nothing to do and with the only company of his thoughts, so might as well try this sodding Ministry business.

***

“Why the hell do you think you're here now, lad? The applications for Auror training closed a month ago.”

Sirius felt so compelled to answer the truth that he worried he had been doused with Veritaserum. He also had the unpleasant inkling that Moody's round, blue, magical eye was enchanted with some wicked Legilimency spell.

“Nepotism, I guess?”

“Exactly.” Mad Eye pointed his wand at him, and Sirius did his best to remain still. If he was being tested, he wasn't going to fail because an old man was trying to intimidate him, so he didn't let his gaze waver, defiant. Not today, of all days.

“Half the people that work in the Ministry are here for those reasons, but never in my Department, understand? So. I can see you have the right N.E.W.T.S, so you could apply. But I bet you're soft like the children that came here pleading last month, thinking being good at throwing spells in a classroom makes them Auror material.”

Moody was challenging him, and Sirius' whole body thrummed in anticipation. He wasn't a child, and definitely, he wasn't soft. If Moody wanted a fight, he'd give him his best. This was the perfect day, he gleefully thought: Merlin help him, he could burn the entire Ministry to ashes with all the steam boiling inside of him.

“So, lad. Here's what you have to do. You have to cast a Patronus, aim a Stunning spell exactly at that mirror, Transfigure my desk in a pig, set a chair on fire and extinguish said fire. In this order. If you manage that, then you'll brew a Veritaserum. If it's good enough, you get to duel me. If you don't end up at St. Mungo's by the end of this day, I might consider your application.”

Sirius grinned. Moody was taunting the wrong person. “I hope you’ll still consider it even if it’s you that ends up at St. Mungo's. Sir.”

***

When he limped to lunch break – “Fifteen minutes, lad, not one more, and don't drink the pumpkin juice, I suspect the weirdos from the Pest Sub-Division are slipping Bundimun secretion in it!” – he had both his cheeks bruised, a shallow cut on his neck, and he had suffered a small Stun so his legs felt as stiff as wood. It had been utterly, totally, brilliant. He hadn't felt so accomplished in a long time.

The Ministry's employee dining hall was a large room, almost blissfully empty now, since Moody sent him late. Dark, menacing clouds were floating outside the windows, bathing the tables and chairs in grey. How appropriate, an enchanted sky that matched his thunderous spirits. He hadn't realized how thirsty he had been until, gulping down three glasses of water, water trickled down his chin in his eagerness.

“Did he make you duel with him? And told you to come back after lunch?” James appeared out of nothing, sliding in the opposite chair, elbows on the table. Sirius shoved half his meat pie in his mouth while James blinked at him expectantly, black hair messy as usual but quite smartly dressed in his trainee uniform. Sirius nodded, mouth full.

“Yes! Then you're in, mate!” yelled James, banging a fist on the table. “The ones he chucks out, he does right away. If he tells you to come back, you're in. Now, listen. This afternoon, he'll tell you he doesn't know yet if you're useless or not, that he'll need a few days to evaluate you properly, but he did that with me and all the other trainees, so you're in! He just wants to make you sweat it, don't worry.”

“Not. Worried.” Sirius burped, and then proceeded to shove meat in his mouth with the single-minded focus that possessed him since yesterday night: do and do not think.

James chuckled. “Did he hit you with that Hex that glues your fingers together?”

Sirius grunted, attacking the pudding: only five minutes left, and then back to fight.

“Sirius... are you alright? You look a bit... manic.”

Sirius slammed the spoon on the wooden table. What a horribly loaded question that was. He felt life drumming in his blood like he hadn't in months – no, _years_ – a wild drumbeat always edging to break in a scream. He wasn't alright. As much as he was trying to push Remus into the corners of his mind, his lies were still there, like background music that, sooner or later, he had to acknowledge. Later, though. Certainly not now, and not tonight at dinner either.

“Moody's a brilliant madman and I like all the ways he's trying to kill me.” He knew it wasn't an answer, but he couldn't lie to James. Lies didn't come so easy to him. “Look, I can't come to dinner tonight. Sorry, James. Another time.”

James' was never one to give up and settle for a non-answer. He followed him up to Moody's office until Moody shooed him away – “Potter, do I need to hit you with a Silencing Charm or are you going to go finish up that report on vampires?” – but that wasn't nearly enough to discourage him.

When Moody finally decided to let Sirius go, sore and bruised and with permanent holes in his robes, it was almost seven and most of the Departments and offices were already closed, but James was there on the corridor, waiting for him with his arms crossed. “So.”

Sirius groaned. “Won't Evans be worried that you're not home?”

“I sent an owl. Are you angry with me? It was your brother who talked to Moody first, I swear!”

There was nothing but worry and kindness in his hazel eyes, looking at him expectantly. James was his brother in ways Regulus never could be, and he meant well, but Sirius really couldn't sit at James' table and eat their fancy food and make polite conversation with Evans and Peter and his precious Lydia Blyshwick, not while Remus was suffering Merlin knows where, transformed into a savage beast. He just couldn't. Like last night, he was going to shower, eat, drink a Sleeping Draught and then go to bed.

“No, I'm not angry, not with you anyway. I'm sorry about dinner, but I'm dead tired, and just not in the mood. Alright?”

James must have caught the hopeless quality of his tone, because he smiled, a little tentative, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, I'll make your excuses. Look, you know I'm here for you, mate, don't you?”

“I'm here for you too,” nodded Sirius, so grateful that James' wasn't pressing this time. His body was tired, and now that the time to fight was over all that was left to feel was the bruising in his body and in his heart. He only wanted to sleep.

After he Flooed home, he showered and ate mechanically, like those were also tasks Moody had given him to complete. When he was done, he realized last night he had used up almost all his alcohol supplies. Only the Firewhisky was left, but the mere idea of feeling sick and throwing up exhausted him. It was quite dreadful, but maybe he was already settling into a respectable Ministry employee routine. He even decided to avoid the Sleeping Draught: it was a powerful brew and his reflexes could suffer from it the morning after. So he went to bed at nine again, but with his body finally relaxed under the warm covers, his mind just refused to quiet. He had avoided watching the night sky out of the windows, but denial wasn't going to pluck the moon out of the sky. All he knew was that registered werewolves' transformations were monitored by the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but what the hell that meant was a mystery to him. Did they let all the werewolves loose on some warded piece of land, free to howl at the moon? He doubted it. Remus was probably tied up or caged. Hurt. The thought made Sirius feel sick, guilty. How unjust it was, to lay safe in his bed, in a beautiful house, now with a prestigious job, even, when Remus was suffering. Then the anger turned back towards himself. He made Remus think he didn't trust him. Remus liked him too much- he fell for him, and that was the crux of the conundrum. He lied because of that overload of feelings. Bugger.

Sirius gave up sleep and went into the kitchen to put up the kettle. At least drinking tea sounded like a slight improvement from sulking and staring at the darkness. He had the sudden, irrational urge to Apparate to Remus', even if he obviously wasn't home now, and Sirius hadn’t the faintest idea where he was or if he was safe. For Merlin's sake, he reasoned, Remus was a wizard, a smart man, and he had been dealing with his lycanthropy since he was a kid, apparently, hence not going to Hogwarts, so he had to be safe. His transformations must be taking a toll on him since last month he said he had been sick for two, no, three days, and when Sirius went to visit him he still seemed unwell. So three days at least until recovery, but Sirius already knew he had to see him sooner, if only to ascertain he was alive and well, and then he could decide to stay upset with him for a little while before forgiving him. Yes, he was going to do that.

As soon as the moon will set in the morning, he'll send Remus an owl. In the meantime, sleep seemed to elude him, so he took his cup of tea in one hand and went to the library room, where he had shelved his old school texts. He began with those, but it was well-known stuff he remembered pretty well, the bite, the difference from regular wolves, Scamander's registry. Luckily, his Uncle Alphard had collected quite the eclectic library, smaller than the one at Grimmauld Place and a lot less based on the Dark Arts, but still impressive, and Sirius had an entire night ahead of him.

He felt exhausted when all the clocks in the house begun to trill, chirpy and irritating, at seven thirty. He had fallen asleep around three in the morning, cheek plastered over the fifth chapter of Diary of a Werewolf Hunter. The book was shite anyway.

After he spelt the coffee-maker and the toaster on, he sat at the kitchen table, Summoned quill and parchment and, without a second thought, he simply wrote what he wanted to know.

_Are you well? I hope you are._

Even if Remus was probably still asleep or too weak to answer, he sent his owl on his way, ate his breakfast, quite calmer than the previous night, then got dressed in the oldest set of robes he owned – he suspected Moody was going to ruin his clothes again – and Flooed to the Ministry.

***

Moody surprised him by handing him over thirty inches of parchment covered in Ancient Runes.

“Flashy duellers like you never have patience nor skills for theory. Prove me wrong, boy, and you can go home when you're finished,” he said, and then left him in his office. Sirius couldn't even complain about the dullness of the task since he was tired from the lack of proper sleep and wasn't sure if he would have been as good as Moody that morning, so he got to work. It wasn't too challenging, an old treaty about wandless magic. A few hours later, James sneaked in the office to tell him that Moody had field work to do that morning, an important case the main team had been following for a while, related to a racket of cursed Egyptian artefacts.

“One day it'll be the two of us.” Sirius looked up from his translation and saw his grinning face. James was genuinely happy to have him there, he realised. He didn't pester Sirius for months only because he expected him to conform to some stuffy society convention – as Regulus did – but he truly, honestly wanted him to work with him. He couldn't help but beam at him.

“Can't wait.” Thank Merlin for James, and if he and Evans were already a married old couple, who cared. Sirius could keep him young and reckless.

In the afternoon, his owl Alcyon dropped a message on top of his almost finished translation. Sirius unrolled it with unsteady fingers, nearly tearing the parchment in his haste.

_I'm well. Still sorry. I miss you._

He missed him too, and it wasn't going to be an easy task to remain angry at him, but Sirius at that point only longed to see Remus and sort everything out.

He hurried to translate the last paragraphs, scribbling as quickly as he could, then ran down to the Atrium to Floo home and as soon as he stepped out of his fireplace, he Apparated to Remus'.

He wasn't home. Sirius even tried a Homenum Revelio, but nothing, the cabin was empty. It looked forlorn, now that he knew Remus wasn't inside, nursing a cup of tea beside the fire, lost in one of his books. At first, he had thought the cabin was quaint and cosy, but that was all Remus: the house was only a poor hut without him. Maybe he was spending his recovery time at St. Mungo's, or with his father. He had actually no idea where.

For a while, Sirius sat on the splintered wood steps of the porch, hoping that Remus might Apparate home to find him there waiting, so he would understand first-hand how little Sirius cared about the lycanthropy, and how silly it had been lying to him. He imagined he was looking quite the romantic hero, waiting for Remus to return, but as the sky kept getting darker, and the air chilling, he thought Remus might not come back at all for the night, and sitting there for hours was a tad dramatic, not to mention useless and uncomfortable. When his stomach grumbled, he decided to give up and go back home, frustrated. For tonight, he had to make do with the knowledge that Remus was well and he missed him, so he Apparated home again, defeated.

After showering, eating, and throwing away a letter from Regulus, he found himself with nothing to do, a residue of impatience still coursing in his veins. Today Moody hadn't worn him out enough, and not being able to talk to Remus after so much anticipation had left him with a lingering restless aftertaste.

I miss you too, he wanted to write him back. Too sappy.

You should be a little sorry, but don't be. No.

He decided it was better – not to mention less desperate – not to owl him again, since Remus was probably asleep and resting, and he tried to do what he hated the most: waiting.

***

On Wednesday, Sirius went out at seven thirty with a spring in his steps, headed through the visitor's exit. In the telephone box, he Transfigured his new trainee robes in a muggle jacket, and when he went out, his wand surreptitiously hidden in his pocket, he headed south towards Horse Guards Road and followed the subtle shifts of his wand. Left toward Carlton House Terrace, left again, then right onto Regent Street, until he was lead into a Victorian, severe-looking building, stone painted black, one panelled window showcasing a crowd of books. When he pushed the glass door open a low thrill announced his presence to the bespectacled lady sat at the counter. She looked up at him from her messy desk, covered with loose papers, needles of various sizes, rockets of thread and magnifying glasses.

“Need some help?” She had unkempt short hair, streaked with grey, and bore a faint resemblance to Professor Sprout.

“Yes, thank you. I'm looking for a book written by William Shakespeare.”

She chuckled like Sirius just cracked a funny joke, and maybe he had but didn't care. “Well, dear, I have plenty.”

He went out of the shop with a brown paper envelope tucked under his arm, satisfied, then wandered off a little more to find a secluded alley where he could to Apparate to Remus'.

Nothing could go wrong that day, so he shouldn't tense at the sight of the now familiar cabin, he reminded himself. He was only eager to sort everything out, not nervous. He climbed the creaking steps bracing himself for another anticlimax if Remus wasn't home again, but the door opened before he could even knock.

“Sirius?” Remus' voice was raspy and he looked still sick, dark circles under his startled eyes, skin pale and clammy, a bandage peeking out of the dressing-gown collar. He looked like he needed a hug and a kiss and a good meal and to be held into loving arms, but Sirius, unsure if he was projecting his own desires, only said: “Hello.”

“ Do you want to...?” Remus stepped out to let him inside the room, and Sirius did.

“So...” he started, and then stopped, words failing him. Pouring his heart out and expecting Remus to do the same was more challenging than he had anticipated. He wondered if existed a spell that could carve open both their chests so they could see the truth in each other's hearts without talking.

“Er. Tea?” tried Remus, who looked as unsure as Sirius was feeling.

He hummed in agreement, while Remus took the wand out of the pocket and waved it – and Merlin, it was weird to witness, even after his Disapparition – so the kettle started to whistle immediately and a couple of cups fled on the table. Non-verbal magic: so not only he was a wizard, but also a competent one. He was burning to have all the questions that were swirling like mad in his head since Sunday answered at once, but more than that he longed to be already past the awkwardness, the stage of polite dancing around the issue, the cautious re-acquaintance with each-other. But above all he wanted to shed all the layers and uncover the truth. So he took a breath and the hell with it. “I'm still upset that you lied to me, but I might understand why you did it, and you said you're sorry-”

“I am sorry!” interrupted Remus, pain in his voice, tormenting the frayed hem of his sleeve with his fingers. He sighed, every line on his young face highlighted by the strained line of his mouth, the sad cast of his eyes. “Sirius, do you really not care that I'm a were-”

“I don't!” replied Sirius, heated.

Remus blinked, surprised at the fierceness of his tone, and then slowly, a glimpse of hope flickered in his eyes. It was gut-wrenching to witness Remus struggling to let himself believe that Sirius didn't care.

“I missed you too,” Sirius said, quickly, his voice betraying the tenderness spreading in his heart.

Remus' pale face flushed pink, but he held his gaze locked with Sirius', and he was almost allowing himself to smile his crooked, pleased smile.

Sirius took a step forward, cupping Remus' pink cheeks in his hands. One last layer to disclose. “Did you meant it when you said you fell for me?”

Remus nodded, and that was it. They kissed, and Sirius delighted in how sweet the truth tasted.

Later, squeezed together in the armchair in front of the fireplace, Remus sat on his lap, playing with the long hair on the nape of his neck and talking softly. “... so my dad tried to mirror Hogwarts classes with Defence and Charms, the subjects he knew best... a lot about Herbology and Potions I learned as an autodidact, same with household charms. I guess I'm quite lacking at Transfiguration, though, and I never learned to read runes-”

“I'm brilliant at Transfiguration, I could teach you if you want!” said Sirius, leaning to brush his lips on his bandaged collarbone.

“You would?” beamed Remus, and Sirius had to kiss him again, smiling against his soft mouth.

“So, is it my turn to ask yet? Because I'm dying to know how it's going at the Ministry.” Remus tapped his fingers on the clasp pinned on the front of his robes.

Sirius leaned his head on the backrest of the armchair. “I'm officially in the Auror training program.”

“So you're a respectable Ministry employee now,” teased Remus, a mischievous grin lightening his tired face.

“I knew you'd say that!” laughed Sirius. “What can I say? I'm so proper now I even put preserving Spells on all the food we bought last Saturday... so if you want, you can keep making fun of me while you teach me how to cook that fillet we chose?”

“I know a lot of cooking spells, too,” promised Remus, and sat up slowly, knees cracking. “Wait, what is that?”

Sirius, still sitting, watched him as he went to the table and took the brown envelope in his hands. “A book. I know you like books, so I bought one for you.”

“Oh. You didn't have to-” Remus started, tearing up the paper, and then stared at the little book like it was about to explode in his hands. “Sirius, but this is an antique book, you shouldn't have- it must cost a fortune!”

“Nah,” Sirius shrugged, joining him at the table. “Well, I really don't know actually, I'm not that good with Muggle money...”

Remus was still staring at his book like it was the most fascinating object he had ever laid eyes on. An eighteenth-century edition of Twelfth Night, its yellowed pages frail and thin, but overall in good shape. He finally looked up at Sirius, taking one hand in his. He had a sweaty palm.

“I love it very much,” he said, the words floating in the air between them before settling on Sirius, like a little cloud of bliss. “Good,” Sirius replied, as light as he could. “Shall we?”

Remus kissed him again, still clutching his book with one hand, then embraced him as they Apparated away.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://aryastark-valarmorghulis.tumblr.com/)!


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